


lower your eyelids to die with the sun

by luminaries



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Mental Health Issues, Torture, Violence, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-15
Updated: 2014-01-15
Packaged: 2018-01-08 21:04:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1137374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luminaries/pseuds/luminaries
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They would have that courage, knowing full well: the price of it is history.</p>
            </blockquote>





	lower your eyelids to die with the sun

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warning: this is a story about war, its causes and its effects, and thus there is explicit mention of violence, death and war related trauma that is experienced by characters in different ways up to and including PTSD. The torture scene is not very explicit, but it still deals heavily with the psychological aspect of it.

The brothers are yet untested by the cruelties of life and so they think themselves invincible, the masters of their fate, and they set upon a course dictated not by themselves, but in which they believe heart and soul. Their backs are straight, defiant eyes scanning the horizon for but a glimpse of their enemy and they long to grip their swords and cut through the darkness they can feel has weaved itself insidiously down to the womb of this earth.

Their father, intones, orders, condemns, his speeches driving the people to new heights of frenzy, and with a weapon in hand, helmet framing his brow, he seems a living portrait of a ruthless conqueror. Fëanor molds himself to this new role as he has molded himself to many other crafts before, and now he is father, warlord and political centerpiece, bridges the gap between monstrousness and compassion, sneers at the risk of being torn in two by the opposing extremes. The equations in his mind used to spiral out creation, but now they only breathe destruction.

How could they have resisted? Between the blood-soaked allure of war, promising victory, a tyrant’s head on a spike, the chance to be heroes, and the sharp sting of love and duty, there was no other choice. They would follow their shining icon until their hearts burst and their blood poured to fill the trenches, a sacrifice well made.

 

 

The first time armies clash, the fighting does not go as smoothly as expected. All their training and simulated duels could not have prepared them for the desperate brutality of a real conflict, and the proof rests in their bruises, broken bones from a blow ineffectively parried, from their foothold slipping by accident, from an opponent’s instinctual fury in the face of death. Worse still were the death cries rising all around them and the sight of gruesome wounds pulsing out blood, flowing down in ribbons to feed the earth.

A single moment’s hesitation was all it took for Maglor’s downwards cleave to leave the elf he was fighting struck down, but not yet dead, screaming in agony until his voice broke and curling up on himself. Wide-eyed and tunnel-vision’d, a hastily whispered curse tumbling from his lips, Maglor stared down at the wretched tableau, the din of battle reduced to only a distant suggestion. A sharper yell broke through his paralysis, but his mind was still whirring in fits, torn between the instinct to help and the instinct to violence, the two intertwining to form a morbid solution. Maglor raised his sword to the sky, prepared to end it all with a cruel benediction, and as inertia carried his strike, he wished that he couldn’t see the way metal was painted over so _red_ , that he couldn’t hear the begging for a reprieve and his hands suddenly didn’t feel like his own.

The aftermath brought them all together again, shaking from exhaustion and pain, now felt once the rush of battle had run its course, but still in one piece. At the sight of the desolation, Caranthir whistled as if in awe, which did nothing to ease the sense of wrongness looming in Maglor’s psyche. Insects seemed to roil underneath his skin, and the feeling of foreboding didn’t cease even after he had wiped his armor clean of any and all traces of blood.

"In time, it will all become much easier. Though war may demand that the scruples of the heart be reduced to silence, we will return as honest soldiers," Curufin advises with a wry twist of his lips. Celegorm’s smile would be encouraging, if it weren’t so sharp, a subtle mar not even his beauty could mask.

 

 

Stars spilled across the black sky, their distant beauty a small distraction from the turmoil that had descended upon the camp. Maedhros carefully avoided Amras’ attempts at capturing his attention, knowing full well what his brother wished to discuss, but having not the energy or fortitude to bear listening to him.

He also knew of his talks with the rest of his brothers, but he had offered what comfort he could, and though his heart bled at the loss they had all suffered, he couldn’t abandon their quest, not now, not when their father needed him the most. And he had been there, right at Fëanor’s side when the terrible news had arrived, had seen him tremble and force his voice to remain steady, had gripped his arm to offer support, if needed, and if Maedhros himself had felt the earth beneath his feet grow unsteady, he would force his own despair down, and be the source of strength, just for this once.

What had happened had been only a cruel twist of fate, but Amras’ grief had led to a harsh exchange of words, and, for the first time, Maedhros had been too shocked to attempt to calm down the dispute. (he felt his blood freeze once he heard his brother choke out _It was your fault, all of it, and now the only grace he will know is as ashes cooling on a funeral pyre_ , quells down the memory of their mother begging for Amrod to stay, and _please, can’t you let him stay? if only for the love you bear for me, don’t lead him down this road of perdition, please don’t let him be carried away_ and she had **_known_** )

Only after Maglor had led Amras, who was on the verge of breaking down, away from the group, did he turn to his father and was dismayed to see all feeling had been locked down under a mask of perfect inscrutability. None had dared approach him as he somberly made his way to his tent in silence.

In the following days, Amras had been inconsolable, with nary a word from his brothers soothing the grief that had nestled in his chest, amplified by the cold and calculated bearing of Fëanor. Maedhros wanted nothing more than to chase away the demons of doubt and anguish plaguing him, though he feared that the rift caused by Amrod’s death had grown too large to mend.

Later on, when he sees Fëanor talking with Amras at the edge of the camp, Maedhros dares hope that the bad blood between them will soon be struck and gone. It was a harsh lesson, unfairly purchased, but he knows their father, knows that he is not cruel, that he values their family over all else, and that the love that has brought them here will not falter or fail so easily. _It has to be so._

 

 

A second life was claimed by the flames, the news of which rippled out in a wave that shook all the elven kingdoms to the core. The death of Fëanáro Curufinwë had proven to be as exceptional as his life. His features, that both enlightened emperors and refined tyrants would have loved to have, were turned to ashes in seconds, a wild wind blowing them away to spread upon the plains, as if he had ever been only a ghost, ethereal and untouchable. The dream was done, but the memory remained, shining fever bright in the hearts of his soldiers.

Though the rapture, the violent happiness and the passion that filled the space where he passed, like a contagion, have frozen solid as if in mourning, the people still recalled his traits, crafting an impromptu death mask that they could look upon in awe when so inclined. And so, his impudence in the face of any laws, no matter if they were the laws of science, or history, or the ones set down by the gods themselves, his nature of utmost coldness and sobriety, with the ability to perform foolhardy deeds, his eyes that shone with the sort of wicked intelligence that many would not hesitate to call genius, were but a few of the traits that he was remembered for.

As for his capricious and often volatile nature, the living myth that had been weaved around him like an ermine cloak caused his followers to look upon his faults with indulgence, seeing them as part of the performance of enlightenment. And if some took a deep, easy breath once his form had faded, it changed but little, since he continued to be treated as before, in fact, even with more piety, because now he obtained another quality that added to what he already had - he was dead.

Yet the world did not stop in its movement to witness this small tragedy, and while the devils in their ash-tipped fortress laughed madly, Maedhros could see that a trap was ready to spring closed. Lost in an uncharted and strange land, an entire army caught wrong-footed, with no allies and no time left to decide… to let personal distress interfere could lead to their untimely demise. He has to prove himself worthy of his role as heir, prove that he can control it, and so he wrestles his humanity down, numbs it with ice, until he is prepared to look at the cold, hard facts with the pragmatism and paranoia needed to see it all through.

The Enemy offers a peace treaty instead of a savage retaliation, plays with their expectations with the sort of arrogance the sons have come to expect from the Valar. However, beyond the sneering contempt they have for Morgoth’s attempt at trickery, Maedhros spies opportunity knocking, the chance to solve this conflict quickly and efficiently. And if he has to deceive the god of lies himself, then so be it; after all - what does a god’s name mean to a non-believer?

 

 

Maedhros finds himself back home, back where he belongs. The forests look just as he remembers them, speak to him in words that are green-edged red leaves ( _he wishes that whoever is screaming would just stop_ ); the path winds until he sees his house, thinks that he’s been gone too long, but the days spent in the wilderness bring him far too much happiness to throw away so easily ( _it’s a comfort knowing that there is no possibility of rescue; hope is not a flame that has finality and really it’s best if he’s just forgotten_ ); his little brothers come and greet him, ask innumerable questions as if he had returned from a great quest, the youngest one even attempts to climb up to his shoulders, and if he pulls too hard on his hair for leverage, well, Maedhros missed them too much to be annoyed ( _he could flay his own skin off if it meant an end to the pain; the knife on the table looks singularly tempting_ ); Nerdanel is not at home, and neither is Fëanor, but once he thinks of all their beautiful inventions, all their passion and how they can shine so bright, his heart is filled with enough love to make his chest ache ( _for a moment he fears  that the hot irons would come close enough to burn his eyes out_ ); this is what he has fought for, he thinks, and he would live it all again, no matter how much it hurts, as long as it means remembering ( _he tells himself that he will never forget what is important; that everything he loves will stay with him, forever; even though it won’t; not even a little_ )

But those blissful times have nothing to do with these nights of soil, and reality turns itself inside out, whereupon he sees his loved ones and army crumpled down, covered by dust, a generation of Eldar as frail as a generation of leaves. Suddenly, a hideous uproar is hurled into the skies, and the dead rise up, all melted flesh and pale bone, their eyes seeing not the hellish landscape stretching before them endlessly, their ears hearing not Maedhros’ cries. He watches the cortege pass him by as if he were not there, and there is nothing for him here but the salted and barren earth, a leaden sky bearing down on it all. In the overcrowded mass, a single face stands out amongst them, and where great Death had reduced them to one dreary and dreadful form, Fingon remains recognizable.

His skin is worn like an old coat, held together by layers of permafrost. His joints move in a strange way, but he looks almost real, like his wrongness was just a trick of the light, and Maedhros doesn’t know whether to move away (he probably couldn’t even if he tried) or wait and watch. His friend walks slowly and inexorably closer, a desert mirage distorting his steps, stops in front of him and turns as if controlled by invisible strings. When he opens his mouth to speak, his words ring clear even through the cacophony of sound.

"It’s strange that our love of beauty should lead us to misery. Tell me, what went wrong in the eyes of the cruel and the unwise?"

There is no answer. It’s too late. It’s been too late for a long time, and time will not reverse at the behest of either a god or an Elda. Maedhros is content, however, to get but a glimpse of what once was, and as the world around them burns, he looks at the dead elf with living eyes and sees nothing else.

He wishes that he could escape into the room of his mind forever, but even there he would be found and dragged away to face new horrors. His mouth feels like clay. His eyes are made of glass. They break. He is not brave; he is alone like a hound in a kennel.

Bands of wire cut and imbed themselves into the skin of his arms. He feels his hands break out in boils. His voice is out there. His voice is strange.

Here there are no prayers. Here there is no change.

 

 

War follows them around, biting at their heels, and Curufin supposes that this is their reward for courting death so insistently. It’s changed them over time, made them feel as if the motions of normal life were unnatural, and every so often it would be easy to forget what it meant to save a life instead of taking one. He doesn’t pretend to understand what deep forces are at work, why sometimes even thinking about blood sets his teeth on edge, but other times it’s a small price to pay for control over the chaos. He is what he is and this is too fine a day to waste on philosophical musings.

Yet, a nemesis is not fought by sitting idle. He has seen enough warriors die and has grown sick of watching their blood seep down into that wretched earth. The monolith before them seemed to thrive on their flesh, had taken and taken with a monstrous gluttony until he had feared that the morale of their forces would have been crushed forever. A nightmare world it had been, cadaverous and harrowing, but what still gives him pause is what Maedhros had lived through.

Curufin could rage and rage about the ceding of the crown, but he would never find it in himself to blame his older brother, not completely. After so long, he can read Maedhros like an open book, and what he sees does not offer the reassuring image of a stable, composed monarch. Beneath a veneer of adroitness and control lies an unknown beast, and the point where the mask shatters and falls and his brother becomes exposed like a raw nerve is where it all ends. It cracks open sometimes, lets the unnameable shine through for just a moment, before it is all closed down and locked tightly, suffocatingly.

Maedhros almost never falters in his attention, but, sometimes, when there are papers to be written and strategies to set in place, Curufin has caught him staring at a blank space of table for just a little too long, with the wrong kind of light in his eyes, and thinks that it’s best that he doesn’t know. It’s not his right to know, anyway; in war, there’s a before and an after, but no in-between; that space belongs only to the dead.

Still, to face such a formidable foe and have the result be in their advantage would have necessitated the crown to remain with them. It makes no difference which brother sits upon the throne just as long as the power is theirs to use. A centralizing force, meant to serve as a compass in these times of hardship, crafted down to the smallest details to fit their best interests and gratify the needs of the masses for a royal family noble and vicious enough to transcend beyond the imposed limits. The people are watching the performance of kingship, live vicariously through their exploits - the grander, the better.

He’s been planning the architecture of their ruling for too long to let it all fall down now. People give up what they want when they want power, and he will do just so. Once everyone has been brought to heel, under a single banner, prepared to set their lives down for a single purpose, only then the first stepping stone to peace will have been set down. They will take back what they have abandoned along the way, at the end: only when they have given themselves up completely, heart and soul, will they be free to build themselves anew, stronger and brighter.

 

 

Death upon death has been wrought, like a tapestry, with only one left to observe it all and mourn his life away. What mad thought had crossed Maedhros’ mind, Maglor could only guess, but he had fluttered like a sylph, straight into the waiting fire, blazed up, and was gone!

He cannot resign himself to death, no matter how much he wishes that he could follow them. In the end, they all burn: in fire, in blood, in dreams, and it never ends, because dreams never end. Not that he would ever wish them to. Not if it means forgetting. He knows that as long as he suffers, he is alive. As long as he lives, _they_ live, and when he dies, _they_ die.

Still, a fragment of they felt, of what they believed in, a formula still remains, but the best is lost. The answers quick and keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love - they are gone. Gone to ashes. This Maglor knows very well, but he cannot approve. More precious was the light in their eyes than all the beauty of the Silmarils.

There is no new land for him, no peace or respite, in each endeavor he is condemned and his heart lays buried in a faraway field. How long can his mind last in this withering world? Wherever he looks, wherever his eyes rest, all that exists for him is the shadow of charred ruins, memento of so many years gone by, barren and spent. He begs hope for a ceasefire - no ship exists for him now, no other road is left. In this patch of earth he’s torn his life apart, his soul turned into a wasteland that can only whisper malcontent.

If all that matters is how well one walks through the fire, then the only part of him that remains is his heart, and it’s been burnt as black as coal.


End file.
